


Gentle as True Strength

by azryal



Series: His Master's Hand [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, angsty fluff, it's like black candy floss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:49:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now he is a slave. He must bear what he is given.</p><p>But must he bear the weight of his master's hands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle as True Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Starrose17 is the Queen of Vikings Fandom
> 
> She has access to the extended versions of the episodes currently available in the UK. She's painstakingly watching, reporting, screencapping and _manually_ creating gifs of the new footage. Cap by cap. Frame by frame. 
> 
> This is dedicated to her. 
> 
> *bows*
> 
> My Lady.
> 
> It's short and not much happens. Just Athelstan's thoughts, really.

Athelstan grew weary of Ragnar’s hands. They were forever upon him; in his hair, on his head, gripping his arms or the back of his neck. They were large and heavy, and even on the cold, damp sea, they burned him through his robe. They left marks, he was sure, brands on his skin saying he was property. Ragnar’s property. Every fall of Ragnar’s hand, be it a strike or not, left him feeling bruised, all over. It seemed that ever since they’d left the ship and that accursed rope had tightened around his throat, he’d been petted, patted, grabbed, dragged, bent, pushed, pulled and prodded like cattle.

Which he supposed he was. Goat. Ass. Slave. It all meant the same now.

They walked a long way into the woods. There was a path, of sorts, places where the foliage had worn away under the tread of many feet. It ran in two directions only; back to the village or forward to Ragnar’s home. He would not know where to run, even if he could get the thrice-wrapped leash out of that rock hard fist.

The thought of that hand, closed, flying out to hit him, filled him with such dread that he kept silent. When he was yanked forward too hard, he barely let out a squeak as he fell. The roots were vicious and rough, but he held his tongue. His palms had deep scrapes and his knees felt raw. He stayed there for a moment. Just to catch his breath before the rope could cinch and draw him back up to his feet.

It did not cinch. It loosened a bit, instead.

Ragnar’s boots appeared in his line of sight. Then more of him, legs and chest and arms and those hot, heavy hands were on him again. They pushed at his shoulders, settling him back onto his heels. Then they took one of his own, turned it over to see the torn skin and oozing blood. He heard a mumble and a slosh of water just before it poured over the gashes.

He jerked, instinctively trying to pull away from the sting.

“Let me clean it, priest.”

Ragnar didn’t sound angry. He sounded tired. Maybe a little sorry. Athelstan chanced a look.

He wished he hadn’t, for instead of his wounds, Ragnar’s eyes were on his face. His gaze fell to the ground once more, but Ragnar put fingers beneath his chin and forced it up.

“You can look at me. I won’t hit you for that.”

A chill took Athelstan at the words. Did that happen? Were slaves not allowed to look at their masters? He kept his eyes downcast, staring at a small purple flower sprouting alone on the path. He breathed, as deeply as he could.

“The other one.”

Athelstan lifted his hand, watched as it was examined. His fingers looked swollen, felt tight and sore, and the cut on this one was deep enough that even after cleaning and more minutes it still bled. Ragnar grunted and slung his pack off of his shoulder. There was rummaging and the cluck of a tongue, then Ragnar’s oddly elegant hands were back on him.

They weren’t that much larger than his own, really. A bit longer, the fingers more tapered and graceful for all the scars on them. They were so gentle now, too, winding a cloth around first his palm then up to hold his third and fourth fingers as one. He had limited movement, but the cloth kept them from bending overmuch and prevented more pain.

His hand was pressed between Ragnar’s palms then. “Better?”

His eyes flew up at the concern he heard. Ragnar watched him blink, nod, and blink more rapidly. Athelstan felt his breath coming in sharp gasps and no matter how hard he inhaled, he felt as though he could not get enough air. He felt wetness on his cheeks and the ground under his knees tilt.

“Easy. Easy. Slow down. Here, drink.”

Ragnar’s voice was soothing, but Athelstan still couldn’t stop the hiccupping gasps that made his body jerk. The greenery began to swirl. He could hear his heart, pounding in his chest loud enough to make his ears ring.

The cold splash on his face startled him. The curl of fingers at the back of his neck made him whimper. They did not dig in to his hair or his flesh, though. Ragnar’s thumb braced on his cheek and his head was carefully tilted back. The neck of the water skin slipped into his mouth.

“Drink some, come on. You’ll be insensible soon, if you don’t.”

Still so soft. Nothing at all like the sharp questions or the veiled threats that came before. Athelstan swallowed a mouthful of water. It was cold, clean, and it did help. He had to stop gasping to drink and after two or three swallows, his head stopped spinning. Ragnar lowered the skin and set it aside. The thumb on his cheek swept forward, over his lips, clearing away stray drops.

And lingered.

Ragnar was close, then. Too close. Athelstan wanted to pull away but the other hand was on his face, too. He felt the gasps coming back as he grabbed Ragnar’s wrists to pry away the touch, but then…

_Oh…_

It was strange, the feel of foreign lips on his own. Stranger still was the sudden slick heat of Ragnar’s tongue, licking over and into his mouth. He was frozen, his eyes wide open and he was aware of what was done, but he couldn’t pull at Ragnar’s hands. He couldn’t throw himself back. He couldn’t do anything except kneel there.

And be kissed.

When Ragnar guided his head to the side at the same time he pushed past Athelstan’s teeth to sweep inside, he whimpered again. His eyes shut. His hands clenched. Still, he could do no more than that. Ragnar cradled his head with hot, strong, heavy hands that were gentle, stroked his cheeks like one would a cat, or a pup. Well, maybe not so much when they pressed into this jaw, forcing it more open, but it wasn’t painful. It was terrifying and thrilling and overwhelming, but not painful.

His mouth was released slowly, with a careful nip of teeth as Ragnar withdrew. Ragnar ran his fingers through Athelstan’s hair, catching in knots and deposits of sea salt, and kept Athelstan’s head up until he met that piercing, blue stare.

“That’s better. We’ll stop for the night, soon, but now you must walk. Ready?”

Dazed, Athelstan nodded, and those hands closed over his upper arms. They rose together. Ragnar held onto him an extra moment, waiting for him to gather his wits. Athelstan raised his eyes. There was a curl to one side of Ragnar’s mouth and a sparkle in his eyes.

He turned to take up his pack, rewrapping the end of the leash around his hand.  “A lesser man would have done that ten times over by now.”

Athelstan didn’t know if he meant the kiss or his weakness.

When Ragnar looked over his shoulder and winked, Athelstan thought maybe he meant both.

Ragnar’s steps were the smallest bit slower. The rope didn’t pull quite so tight.

Athelstan wondered when Ragnar would put his hands on him.

Again.


End file.
